


Like Father, Like Son (1)

by iamisaac



Series: Lacking Humanity/Like Father, Like Son/Humanity's Son [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5233958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. The war is over, but the Order didn't win.</p><p>This works as a stand-alone piece, but it is set in the same time frame as Lacking Humanity (posted below), and the two will link in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Father, Like Son (1)

Harry blinked through shattered glasses at the figure of Lucius Malfoy towering over him; and made a half-hearted effort to stand, which got him as far as his knees. The war was over, he reminded himself again. He should be thankful - Voldemort was dead; he, Harry, still alive. But surely it wasn’t meant to end like this? Not in captivity – and certainly not in captivity to Lucius Malfoy, who by rights should be imprisoned, put away for being a Death Eater; especially with the Dark Lord defeated. However, there were none left to do it – so few left alive on either side that the concept of winning and losing held no sway in the imagination.

He was alive. Something he had never looked to see happen; and yet he knew now, with searing certainty, that he would do anything he could to stay that way – that despite everything, life was precious, life was sweet, life was worth it.

“You’re a long time dead,” he mumbled incoherently.

Lucius looked down his patriarchal nose at the figure kneeling before him and kicked him viciously, watching impassively as he fell sideways from the force.

“Indeed, Mr Potter,” he said coldly. “And perhaps you had better remember that staying alive involves behaving yourself; involves, in fact, doing precisely what you are told.”

Harry pushed his glasses firmly onto his nose. It helped little, given their fractured state, but it was a gesture of normality in a situation far beyond any he had imagined.

“What do you want of me?” he asked uncertainly.

A sneer crossed Lucius’s face.

“I? Nothing. Believe me, I would very much rather see you dead than lying in that shambolic heap on my carpet.”

“Then… what…?” Harry was confused.

Lucius shrugged a little and poured himself a drink.

“My son wants a toy. You fit his requirements.”

Harry swallowed hard, attempting to twist his tired brain around this information. Malfoy had brought him here; had kept him alive… for Draco? And what, he thought apprehensively, hand unconsciously rubbing his forehead, what did Draco want with him? His face evidently showed his thoughts, and Lucius looked down on him contemptuously.

“That is my son’s business, and his alone. I will merely say once more: your life depends on your compliance. If you are disobedient – and if, and when, Draco tires of you – your life will be terminated. I trust I make myself clear?”

Harry nodded dazedly, then, seeing that Lucius was waiting for a spoken answer, said “Yes,” in muffled tones.

“I am glad to hear it,” Lucius said coolly. He raised his voice slightly. “Draco!”

“Father?”

A door opened behind Harry, and he heard Draco before he saw him. He turned clumsily to look over his shoulder at the young man who had entered, then back to Lucius as he spoke again.

“Your… prize.” Lucius’s eyes rested dispassionately on Harry once more. “Take him away.”

Harry looked back at Draco, noticing the acquisitive look in his eyes; the half-sneer, half-smile resting on his lips. Draco jerked his head in silent command.

“Come, Potter. This way.”

Harry stumbled to his feet, aware of his injuries and especially the pain in his side where Lucius had kicked him. Draco reached out a hand and dragged him through the door, pushing him unfeelingly up the stairs and into a large room down a long passageway. It was elegant and beautifully decorated, just like the other room, and Harry knew that the only jarring note was struck by him, standing there in his blood-stained and tattered robes, broken glasses once more half-falling from his face.

“This,” said Draco in lordly tones, “is my room.”

His eyes flicked over Harry, and his lips curled in disgust.

“You’ll find the bathroom through that door,” he told him. “And for God’s sake, Potter, take a shower. There are robes in the cupboard.”

Harry glanced at him, wanting to ask “What is going to happen to me?” but not sure how to phrase it; not sure, either, that he could deal with the answer right now. So instead he shuffled wearily into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

The water was warm, and both painful and comforting on his wounds. He stood under the shower until he lost count of time, wishing that he could wash his memories away with the dirt and blood. At last he knew he could stand there no longer, and he stepped out, drying himself on a towel so fluffy and luxurious that it felt almost sinful to use it, after all that he had gone through. The cupboard yielded robes, as Draco had said it would, and he struggled into some clothes, trying not to realise that these must belong to Draco; that he himself depended on Draco for everything from his clothes to his very life. Only his glasses were his own; and they were shattered.

He pushed open the door. Draco was lying on the bed – the large, king-sized bed, Harry belatedly noticed – propped up on one elbow, his eyes apparently fixed on the bathroom door, and Harry’s entrance. Harry stopped just inside it, closing it behind him, realising he didn’t know – he had no idea - what came next.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” Draco’s voice was just as it had always been at school, and Harry responded to it as he had in those seemingly far off days.

“I don’t know,” he said angrily, running a hand through damp black hair and wishing once more that he could see properly through his glasses. “I don’t bloody know what the hell I’m supposed to do now, Malfoy! You tell me – that’s how it’s supposed to work isn’t it? I mean, at the moment I can’t even see you properly.”

Draco laughed mockingly, and reached over to the table on one side of the bed, picking up his wand and waving it idly but with purpose, so that the broken glass mended itself in seconds. Harry glared at the newly-in-focus Malfoy, who smiled scornfully back.

“Oh, Potter? Don’t try and use this wand. It’s hexed so that if you touch it, you’ll find yourself strung up against the wall in seconds.”

“I take it I don’t have a wand?” he asked unhopefully.

Draco rolled his eyes.

“No, Potter, you do not have a wand. You do not have anything. The only things you’ll have are those I give you; and you’ll only get those if you’re good. You’re property now, Potter. You’re on the other side of the verb - you do not own things; you ARE owned. By me. Do you get the idea?”

Harry fought down the urge to punch Draco hard. Instead he said, trying to keep the bitter note out of his voice,

“You know, you sound just like your father. Yeah, I got the message downstairs. What I don’t know is what I’m supposed to do. You’ll forgive me” - sarcasm was taking over – “but I’m not precisely used to this situation.”

Draco looked amused, a satisfied smile curling his lips.

“You will be, Potter. You will be,” he drawled. “Until then… I’m going to enjoy teaching you.”

Harry bit his lip firmly and dug his fingernails into his palms. It’s good to be alive he reminded himself. Don’t antagonise him. Draco’s smile grew broader, watching the emotions chase across his face.

“Dear me, Potter. It’s so hard to stomach, isn’t it?”

“Don’t bloody call me Potter with every other breath,” he snapped. “It’s fucking annoying.”

Draco laughed again.

“You really don’t have the idea, yet, do you? I can call you anything I like; do anything I like, and there’s nothing at all you can do about it. So why don’t you come over here, Potter, and I’ll begin to tell you some of your duties.”

Harry’s nails had made purple marks on his palms, but he dug them still deeper until they broke the skin, as he walked over, with furious reluctance, to the bed – to Draco. Draco looked him over carelessly, then nodded.

“Okay. Down.”

“What?”

“On the floor, Potter.” Draco enunciated each word with derisive precision.

He differed from his father in one way, Harry thought dimly: he depended on the power of command to get his way, not violence. It was, he supposed, an improvement. He sunk slowly until he was sitting on the floor, his head slightly below Draco’s, so that he had to look up if he wanted to see him. Which he didn’t, he told himself, staring hard at the bed frame.

“No; look at me,” instructed Draco smugly, and when Harry obeyed and looked up, he continued “I didn’t mend your glasses for you to admire the furniture. I wanted you to be able to see precisely what was going on. Between you and me.”

“Thanks,” murmured Harry sardonically.

“You see, Potter, I give the orders and you obey them. It’s that simple.”

Draco’s usually pale face was slightly flushed with pink; his eyes brighter than usual. Harry looked at him with burgeoning disbelief.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

The eyes glinted brighter still.

“Hell yes,” whispered Draco. “I can get off on you, in you, or over you if I want. I can have you on the floor and thrust right into you; I can have you bring me off with your hands or your mouth if I want. Whatever I want, Potter…”

Harry froze. Listening to Draco say aloud what he realised now he had half-feared was scaring the hell out of him; the shaming thing was, it was turning him on at the same time. Without his conscious volition, his eyes slid from Draco’s face, arousal written clearly across it, to the even clearer signal at his groin, and he felt his own erection twitch.

“Oh fuck.” He didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until Draco laughed breathlessly.

“Well, there’s a shock. You want it too, don’t you, Potter? You want to be on your knees with my cock in your mouth – you want it.”

“Get lost.” But Harry’s throat was dry and the response not as forceful as he would have liked.

“Oh no,” said Draco softly. “Because you’re going to get your wish.”

He sung both legs down so that one was either side of Harry’s head, and moved his robes aside, exposing himself.

“I always fancied you as my whore, Potter,” he said pensively, “but I never realised you’d be such an eager one. You really are the slut you look, aren’t you?”

Harry would have given anything - nearly anything – to refuse him, but the two whispers – the first saying it’s not worth dying to refuse; the second, more traitorously, you know you want to were too strong; so he bent his head forward and took Draco in his mouth. It was a new experience – bigger… more, more filling than he had expected, and hotter, too. He moved, tentatively; then, hearing Draco groan, more firmly, until Draco moaned more and thrust into his mouth fiercely – he was fucking his mouth, Harry thought dazedly; and even as he nearly choked, it felt good. One of his hands slid down his own body, but Draco, somehow, seemed aware of it and kicked it away – “No, Potter, not unless I say,” – and continued to thrust, just that little faster until he came suddenly, and Harry spluttered and swallowed.

Draco shifted back onto the bed, and looked down at Harry, an calculating look in his eyes. Harry dropped to his hands and knees.

“You’ve done that before, Potter,” Draco said assessingly. He was still breathing fast, his voice a breathless drawl. “What is it – were you Gryffindor’s whore? Did you go down on Weasley every night; have you had Longbottom panting in your ear as your brought him off; has Thomas had you on your back and screwed you into the floor?” He glanced over Harry, noticing that he was still hard and aching, and smirked. “Go on, then, Potter, do yourself, and I’ll watch.”

Harry hated himself for being too needy to refuse, and touched himself, desperate for satisfaction. It came quickly, and he panted on the floor, unable to drag himself up.

“Who were you thinking of as you did that?” Draco’s voice was demanding, a kindling flame.

Harry gulped, trying to think of an acceptable answer in a hurry.

“Um… Ginny Weasley,” he said hastily, eyes looking anywhere but at Draco.

“Really…?” 

Draco’s voice was disbelieving, and unexpectedly he reached for his wand again, placing it to the side of Harry’s head and twisting it, as Harry had seen Dumbledore once do when removing memories for a Pensieve. But this was a fantasy, not a memory; and instead of placing the silver thread in a bowl when he had captured it, Draco pointed the wand at the opposite wall, and the thread disentangled itself, slipping onto the wall and beginning to form in a series of pictures. Harry felt the heat of humiliation wash through him as he saw himself – the fantasy Harry – on the wall. He was on his knees in front of Draco again, mouth greedy for him; but this time when Draco came, Harry did too.

“You really are a slut.” Draco’s voice had mixed contempt and exultation in it as he watched the pictures play over.

Harry swallowed, hands shaking, unable quite to believe that Draco had seen what had been in his mind – not wanting to believe it. Without warning, Draco leant over him and slapped him hard in the face.

“That,” he said coldly, “is for using me for your own pleasure without permission.”

Harry could feel the imprint of Draco’s hand; feel every finger mark burned into his skin.

“I…” he whispered shakily; then, still shaky but louder, “Fuck you.”

Draco’s face twisted into a mocking sneer as he got up and made for the bathroom.

“Oh, but you’ve got it the wrong way round. I’ll be fucking you. But in my own time, Potter; in my own time. Now….” He flicked the wand at Harry, cleaning him. “Lie down there and go to sleep, like a good boy.”

Harry glanced at the bed instinctively.

“But I thought…”

“I don’t keep you to think. When I want you in my bed, I’ll tell you, understood?”

Draco sauntered into the bathroom without waiting for an answer, and Harry settled himself uncomfortably on the floor.


End file.
